...

White walls
Pill calls
The memories of a mad man.

Those little slits
In my wrist
That soon become my pupils.

The art
My cart
No one breathes well with a chain around there throat.

Syringes
And the fringes
Of my cotton white gown

In here I see
Who I could be
From the very end

If love is suicide,
And birth is death,
Then where am I?